


rolling out of violence

by Imprise



Series: Second Visions [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M, Missing Scene, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 08:10:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9375980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imprise/pseuds/Imprise
Summary: Sherlock checks on John after the bomb explodes in 221B.





	

"John?" He scrambled up with his knees biting into the asphalt, feeling the sprain in his wrist. He had no idea how he'd lived so easily through that hot fall, and the terrible thought came to him immediately that John might not have done the same: He considered breaks, cuts, blunt trauma, the innocent bruising that would mark him if he'd struck the ground foot-to-shoulder, shielding the old delicacy of John's internal organs. The window could have blinded him. He'd seen glass buried under coarse second skin, seen it slice clean through the scar tissue that John had so much of. He wanted to see John now, quickly because he hadn't moved; Sherlock's ankles protested feebly as he staggered across the road, eyes fixed on John's face.

He lay the back of a hand against his short neck and felt a hard pulse thump under his fingers. John was lucid. His eyes rolled over to look at Sherlock, who'd seen that he was alive midway to John's body, and had only touched him because it would make things solid. There was a minor cut under his left cheekbone and one of his legs would be unhappy for weeks, but John was well. That was good.  
"Why are you still on the ground?"  
"Adjusting to the change in scenery." John propped himself up, wincing, on an elbow. "Well, that was fun. I'm beginning to see why you do it."  
Sherlock frowned. "I don't make a habit of street-diving."  
John didn't answer that, gathering himself up from the pavement in slow movements. It looked dramatic: John had done more than this before in worse condition, and Sherlock suddenly became afraid that what he was seeing would someday become the quietude of age. It was an irrational feeling - John would grow old like any other man - but watching him like this stirred something primal in Sherlock, made him want to protect John even from this. His throat didn't open up until John spoke.  
"A phone call?"  
So he had been thinking. People slowed down when they were thinking. Sherlock marveled absently at his initial reaction. "Yes."  
"Sherlock," John began. He'd busied himself with looking presentable for a few moments; his voice was now carefully neutral. "Do you remember the first case we took? When we went to see the pink lady's body?"  
"Yes," Sherlock said. John had only just started to look at him, and his eyes were very honest. It didn't matter if what he was saying wasn't relevant.  
"She'd written her daughter's name on the floor. You said you didn't understand why she'd do that, why she'd think of her dead child before she died."  
That was inaccurate. "It was in our flat. I said I didn't see why she should still be upset."  
"You wanted to give me a phone call, Sherlock." John's jaw moved, hard, but his gaze was open. "You wanted me to talk to my daughter before I died."  
Sherlock missed a beat. He ran one finger down the length of his own thumb. "And you told me it was Oscar Wilde."  
"I know you smiled at that." His mouth quivered. Sherlock had been transparent in his attempt at deflection, and for some delicious reason John had seen it wasn't out of fear; Sherlock had already asked him to stay, voice large and awful. They watched each other, amusement traced on both their faces. Sherlock's gaze was raw.  
John cleared his throat. "So what now?"  
"Now we're going to see whether Mycroft's survived Mrs. Hudson. He should be pleased."  
"And then?"  
Sherlock placed a hand right at the nape of John's neck, feeling his life flood Sherlock's skin with wild heat. He would never allow it to fade. Somewhere in the world, safe and quiet, John Watson would have to exist with tooth and wineskin and his growing little child. Sherlock could not allow anyone to take this from him, but there remained those who would and could.   
He led John down into the flat once again with his hand still burning, swollen with the knowledge of what he should do. "Then," he said quietly, "we'd better go and see my sister."


End file.
